Возвращение на родину

IV. An Hour of Bliss and Many Hours of Sadness

           

           Theyremainedlongwithoutasingleutterance,fornolanguagecouldreachtheleveloftheircondition—wordswereastherustyimplementsofaby-gonebarbarousepoch,andonlytobeoccasionallytolerated.

           “Ibegantowonderwhyyoudidnotcome,”saidYeobright,whenshehadwithdrawnalittlefromhisembrace.

           “Yousaidtenminutesafterthefirstmarkofshadeontheedgeofthemoon,andthat’swhatitisnow.”

           “Well,letusonlythinkthathereweare.”

           Then,holdingeachother’shand,theywereagainsilent,andtheshadowonthemoon’sdiscgrewalittlelarger.

           “Hasitseemedlongsinceyoulastsawme?”sheasked.

           “Ithasseemedsad.”

           “Andnotlong?That’sbecauseyouoccupyyourself,andsoblindyourselftomyabsence.Tome,whocandonothing,ithasbeenlikelivingunderstagnantwater.”

           “Iwouldratherbeartediousness,dear,thanhavetimemadeshortbysuchmeansashaveshortenedmine.”

           “Inwhatwayisthat?Youhavebeenthinkingyouwishedyoudidnotloveme.”

           “Howcanamanwishthat,andyetloveon?No,Eustacia.”

           “Mencan,womencannot.”

           “Well,whateverImayhavethought,onethingiscertain—Idoloveyou—pastallcompassanddescription.Iloveyoutooppressiveness—I,whohaveneverbeforefeltmorethanapleasantpassingfancyforanywomanIhaveeverseen.Letmelookrightintoyourmoonlitfaceanddwelloneverylineandcurveinit!OnlyafewhairbreadthsmakethedifferencebetweenthisfaceandfacesIhaveseenmanytimesbeforeIknewyou;yetwhatadifference—thedifferencebetweeneverythingandnothingatall.

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